


Sad Machine

by sadomochi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Boot Worship, Crying, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28863624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadomochi/pseuds/sadomochi
Summary: Vader dares to ask for comfort instead of pain and ends up revealing what might be too much. Tarkin is willing to run with it.
Relationships: Wilhuff Tarkin/Darth Vader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Sad Machine

The door to Grand Moff Tarkin's office slid open with a hiss. In the entryway stood the dark figure of Darth Vader, silhouetted against the bright lights of the hallway and casting its shadow into the dimly lit room. 

Looking up from the datapad on his desk the Grand Moff spoke. “Come in, Lord Vader.” Tarkin did not have to ask why Vader was here. He could tell by the way Vader approached his desk, full of tension and head lowered, what the Dark Lord had come for. 

A knowing smile crossed Tarkin's lips as he swiveled his chair around so Vader could stand before him. Vader looked miserable, normally squared shoulders hung in exhaustion or shame or both and he reeked of singed wiring and fabric. 

“What is it, Vader?” Tarkin asked, playing dumb. Whenever Vader came to him like this it was almost certain that he had failed his Master in some way and received punishment for it. Vader was here to be comforted and Tarkin had made it a habit to give him what he was looking for. 

Vader did not answer, breathing deeply. They both knew, Tarkin had learned to read Vader's body language expertly despite the suit. “Knees?” Tarkin said, both a question and a command meant to gauge what Vader needed tonight. 

The Dark Lord fell to his knees, his whispered “yes, Sir” almost drowned out by the thud of his armor on the floor.

“Very well,” Tarkin said. Moving his chair closer. Vader was trying his hardest to make himself look smaller, folding inwards and cowering with his wrists crossed behind his back. “Do you need to be restrained, Lord Vader?” The request for restraints had surprised Tarkin in the past. The standard-issue handcuffs he kept in his office were easy for Vader to brake but he never did so. Tarkin suspected Vader asked for the cuffs as a means to stay centered, a reminder too keep his hands in place. 

Today, Vader declined. “No, sir,” he rasped. This assured Tarkin of one thing, Vader wanted him to be gentle for now, unusual but entirely possible. 

Other times, Vader had practically begged Tarkin to cause him pain. Not with outright words, Tarkin hadn't quite gotten him there yet, but instead nodding or grunting in agreement when Tarkin offered him ropes, a stun baton or even a vibroblade. 

“That's fine,” Tarkin murmured, bringing his hands to cup Vader's mask and lift his head to face him. He wondered what was going on behind the dark orbs of the mask, if Vader had that same expression of desperation on his face that he'd seen Skywalker make at Kenobi from time to time. 

Tarkin tried not to think of Skywalker too much. Since his intimate relations with Vader had started, Tarkin sometimes found himself overcome with a sense of regret. What if Tarkin had claimed Skywalker during the War? What had Skywalker's old body been like and did he already have these, preferences back then?

But regret was unproductive, and Tarkin was not unsatisfied with Vader's body as it was. Rather, he was fascinated by it and controlling it pleased him beyond compare. 

As he was absentmindedly cupping Vader's muzzle, stroking his thumbs gently along it, Tarkin could feel Vader's regulated exhales over the skin of his wrists. There really was a dog-like quality to Vader like this. Bred to kill and yet cowering before his handler, begging for approval.  
“Just what are we going to do with you?” Not addressing Vader but rather murmuring to himself, Tarkin got an answer anyways. “Anything, sir. Please.” Came choked out between breaths. Vader inched closer then and buried his head in Tarkin's lap. 

A silent gasp escaped Tarkin. Vader had never before sought out this much physical contact and that he seemed to be craving it now made Tarkin feel strange. Like this was more important to Vader that he had initially thought. More than just Vader getting his fix of pain laced with pleasure from the only man he deemed fit to do so. But a deeper devotion. 

Tarkin would not be the one to judge Vader for this. His respect for the Dark Lord ran deep and if a second pair of rough hands guiding Vader was what he needed in order to best serve the Empire, Tarkin was not going to deny him.

The shiny black plastoid of Vader's helmet was smooth under Tarkin's palm. He had never touched this part of Vader before and felt a curious kind of satisfaction from it. Wether Vader could actually feel Tarkin petting his head Tarkin didn't know but as it was the case with many things they did, the gesture and its implications were what counted. 

Vader's breathing had seemingly shifted gears under Tarkin's attention, coming faster and sometimes carrying small, broken off bits of his voice with it. A smile forced itself onto Tarkin's lips at how broken Vader seemed in this moment. Snuggled up close to him and hands twitching where Vader held them clasped behind his back, most likely in order not to hold onto Tarkin.

If Tarkin could not wring pain from Vader tonight, shame would do. “What are you doing, Vader? Speak,” Tarkin commanded, not wanting to hear anything in particular but anticipating Vader's answer. 

“I-” Vader cut himself off, fists clenching behind his back, “I don't know. I need-”

“What do you need?” 

Vader growled in frustration. “I need you, sir,” he bit out. “Please.” 

“Put your hands where you want them to be.” Tarkin heard himself say over the rush of blood in his ears. Was Tarkin correct in his assumption? Were these impromptu meetings really more than a means to an end for Vader? 

As Vader's gloved hands came forward to tighten on Tarkin's thighs he flinched. Inside of Tarkin, contrasting emotions were dueling. A kind of protective instinct he hadn't felt in years that burned in his chest against a sadistic sense of disdain for Vader. 

It felt wrong, the fist of the Empire whimpering in his lap, confessing his devotion when Vader could have easily crushed him with a flick of his wrist instead. But then, Vader had always been submissive, as Skywalker to Kenobi, then to the Emperor, and now he had chosen Tarkin. 

Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, Tarkin was intent on exploiting that fact. Vader's and his own feelings be damned. 

Hand lifting form Vader's head, Tarkin tilted his muzzle back up to look at him. “I wonder what's wrong with you, Vader,” Tarkin mused, curious as to how Vader would react. A distorted, static- filled sound tore itself from the vocoder. A sob, Tarkin almost thought. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sir,” Vader babbled. “I can't help it, I need-”

Suddenly, there was pressure at the top of Tarkin's booted foot. Tarkin's eyes widened in shock. Vader was actually humping his boot like some feral animal. Wether Vader was even realizing his actions, Tarkin wasn't sure. The only thing he was now certain of was that Vader was really crying behind the mask. Overtaken by whatever warped instinct made it so that Vader needed to be dominated, needed to serve to survive. 

“Forgive me, please.” It sounded like it pained Vader to form the words. He was desperately rutting against Tarkin's boot now, completely lost to his own shameful lust. 

Tarkin could only stare into the void that made up the eyes of Vader's mask. Were Vader's eyes closed behind it or was he staring back at Tarkin, gaze tearful and wild?

“Kriffing mutt,” Tarkin hissed. He desired to test the limits of just how much verbal abuse Vader was willing to take, but the shuddering Dark Lord kneeling before him looked to be completely out of it already, respirator barely able to keep up. 

Another time then, Tarkin decided and took to petting Vader's helmet and muzzle again, leaning in close. “Is this what you need, Vader? To get yourself off humping your Grand Moff's boot like a bitch in heat? You should be grateful I'm not going to tell the Emperor about this, how you humiliate yourself in front of me.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Broken sounds of static came with Vader's cries as he pressed himself even harder against Tarkin, shaking with whatever sensation the pathetic grinding supplied him with. Pain or pleasure or both, Tarkin had yet to find out about the specifics concerning that part of Vader's body. 

“You're trying so hard to be good, aren't you Vader? And you don't know what else to do besides grovel at my feet like a dog. Lucky for you,” Tarkin yanked Vader forward by his muzzle, “I'm pleased. Good boy.” 

On his knees, Vader tensed up and released a terrible, inhuman moan that made Tarkin shiver in turn. Vader trembled, heavy head sagging against Tarkin's thigh in exhaustion. 

Tarkin smiled. “Good boy,” he repeated, delighting in the way the words had Vader trying to hide his not-face in shame. It was absurd, but there was something so...cute about Vader like this, Tarkin wasn't sure if he wanted to think about it. 

After a moment of silence, Tarkin spoke. “Was I able to help you out, Lord Vader?” 

The question made Vader stir and he rose to his feet somewhat quickly, as if he'd just realized his own position. “Yes, thank you,” he said. 

They stared at each other for some time, the tension between them heavy with how quickly they had both chosen to sever the threat of intimacy. There was an underlying suspicion that something has changed. That just now, a line had been crossed that had been off-limits before and Tarkin was thrilled to explore how much farther they could take this. 

Tarkin allowed himself to smile at Vader. “Why are still here, Vader? Go on, you're dismissed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I just need Vader to be a soft mess. Also check out Sad Machine by Porter Robinson :)


End file.
